Where they are not The heart alone can make divine To incantations dost thou trust, That man can bless one pile of dust The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban- Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, Make music, though unheard their pealing Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Ye must be Heavens that make us sure And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What's hallow'd ground? 'Tis what gives birth And your high-priesthood shall make earth CAROLINE. PART I. I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow, There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, Come to my close and clustering bower, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, With all thy rural echoes come, Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, For sure from some enchanted isle, From some green Eden of the deep, From some sweet paradise afar, Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never cross'd. Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roam, Name to thy loved Elysian groves, PART II. TO THE EVENING STAR. GEM of the crimson-colour'd Even, Why at the closing gates of Heaven, So fair thy pensile beauty burns, To chambers brighter than the rose; To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, O! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweeten'd the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: |